


Timing is Everything

by sheffiesharpe



Series: At Least There's The Football [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is totally a ninja, Breakfast in Bed, Greg Lestrade has two nieces and is good at football, Greg Lestrade is secretly punk rock, M/M, Mycroft shouts Kent's best insults, abuse of silk pyjamas, thank God somebody can cook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-23 15:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheffiesharpe/pseuds/sheffiesharpe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several people get to watch some football, Sherlock is apparently rearranging 221B Baker Street, and Lestrade is an overnight guest at Mycroft’s flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timing is Everything

Despite thinking, after Mycroft left, he’d be wrecked for work, Lestrade can’t remember the last time he’s felt so _ready_ to get things done. The only problem is that stringing two thoughts together that don’t involve last night is very, very difficult. It appears that the only way he can combat it is to do everything today at full speed. And even then—the taste of Mycroft’s skin is still on his tongue.

“Where’s the fire?” Sergeant Donovan actually hikes her skirt up a bit so she can take longer strides without the fabric getting in the way. There’s no one else in the hallway to see, and when he starts taking the stairs two at a time on the way up to the next floor, she bounds after him. And then she just stands beside him while a very reluctant witness, sixty-seven-year-old Mabel Parker, transforms, through the application of a bit of charm and earnestness, into a veritable font of knowledge about the comings and goings from the flat below her own. They leave with a lengthy statement and two HobNobs each.

“What was that?” Sally mumbles, still flipping through her notes, biscuits clamped between her teeth.

“Work.” He scrapes chocolate from the pad of one thumb with his teeth. There’s no way to avoid the ripple of memory. Lestrade actually tugs at the back of his own hair to try to yank himself out of it. That doesn’t really help, either. He taps the back of the notebook. “Go check in on the Foster lead. I’m going to get started on Huntingdon.” He walks toward the complex door. “Call if something interesting turns up.”

He leaves the squad car with her. She likes to drive a lot more than he does, at least as far as four wheels go, and the walk will be good—one bus and a few blocks. He can’t help that every black car he sees makes his head swivel.

***

Mycroft calls him Friday, late, while he’s checking in on the Gunners news ahead of Saturday’s match. Mycroft’s voice feels good in his ear. Lestrade thinks of saying the hell with it and asking him over again, but then he yawns, and Mycroft echoes it, a stifled hum on the other end of the call.

“Stop that,” he says, when they trade not one yawn but two. The music playing in the background is a Bach _sarabande_ , he’s informed, and Lestrade imagines they’re in the same position, stretched across their respective couches, because surely Mycroft has a sofa, the night gone quiet around them. It’s more than late, given how little sleep either of them had the night before. Still, they somehow spend half an hour on the phone. When he asks about Anthea’s Triumph, Mycroft only says he’ll have to ask her about it himself. Lestrade says he will. And he might even do it. Someday. They hang up with only a bit of dancing around the call’s end.

Saturday conspires against them, too, Lestrade taking something over for Dimmock, who, apparently, got food poisoning on Friday (takeaway menu for that place is already in the bin); Mycroft preparing for a teleconference in another time zone (“agreeing to meet over the other party’s breakfast will free up so much time”). But they’re on for Spurs and Man City on Sunday. Mycroft insists on hosting, and the address he gives is near the British Library, of all things. Not the sort of neighborhood he expected.

Still, that leaves Lestrade staring at the wall on Saturday evening. He could do a dozen different things, but none of them are what he really _wants_ to be doing, which isn’t going to happen, anyway. After doing a bit of laundry and tidying in the kitchen, he finds himself fixating on the champagne glasses, now clean, now resting on the edge of the countertop. Arsenal doesn’t start for nearly an hour.

He calls John. Sherlock is the one who answers.

“You never call when you can text. What?” The eagerness in his voice, the hope. It’s nearly endearing, if he forgets that Sherlock’s hoping for a puzzle made of corpses.

“Sorry. Pleasure, not business.”

It sounds like Sherlock drops the phone entirely, but at least it lands on something soft-seeming. Then there’s a scrabbling noise. “This,” John says in the background, “is why my phone is scratched at more than the charge port.” He answers cheerfully enough, though. “Greg. What’s on your mind?”

He’s absolutely certain John doesn’t actually want the real answer to that question. “Football and a few pints?”

“Yes. Where?” John shoves the two words together, and there’s a muffled, clothy sound: John’s jacket already sliding on. Then a not-at-all-muffled, derisive _football? You’re leaving_ this _for football?_

“While I am still able to walk. Yes. Christ, aren’t you tired yet?” And John turning back to the phone. “Sorry. Um—?”

Lestrade’s going to pretend John didn’t just say what he thought he said. “I’ll just be by in a few.” He rings off before he hears something else he’d rather not.

He puts on his Arsenal jersey, the one Mycroft gave him. It’s the first time he’s worn it, and it fits perfectly. Perfectly enough that he’d suspect it was tailored for him, except they don’t do that with football kits. And he puts in his earring and does his hair, and as he’s walking up Baker Street, he wonders if just texting John to come down is unforgivable cowardice. He glances up, and there’s a narrow silhouette at the window. Sherlock’s already seen him. Fuck.

There’s nothing to do but bound up the stairs and pretend everything’s normal and that he didn’t spend most of Thursday evening snogging Sherlock’s brother. He tries to tamp down the resulting grin before he gets to the top of the stairs. And then he almost just walks in, thinks better of it, knocks.

Sherlock is the one who opens the door, and he is, thankfully, dressed. Behind him, the flat is in even more disorder than usual, at least two more bookcases in the front room, books and what looks like an extraordinary geode collection all over the floor. Sherlock’s eyes narrow when he sees Lestrade, and Lestrade braces for the reaction, but Sherlock says nothing because John shouts for him.

“Get your arse back here.”

Sherlock turns on his heel, disappears into what Lestrade knows is his room. Then the two of them stagger back out, carrying another wooden crate of something, John’s right hand on one handle, Sherlock’s left on the other. Lestrade supposes that’s their version of being careful with their injuries. They put it down with only a bit of a thump, and it appears to be full of World War II ordinance.

“This is concerning.” More than usual. If Sherlock gets him exploded before he’s even got a hand under Mycroft’s clothes, he’ll kill him.

“They’ve all been dismantled now,” he says, and he pats the rusting olive green casing of the one on top. “Not a bit of live explosive in them anymore. Sadly.” His eyes never leave Lestrade’s. On the mantle, there’s an inverted nose cone from one of them, apparently, serving to hold an assortment of mints, the kind that takeaway places always have on the counter by the register.

Lestrade breathes deep and tells himself he’s not going to ask exactly when Sherlock decided to dismantle them. By the look on John’s face, it was a lot more recently than it should have been. The air itself has a tang of gunpowder about it, a bit of the damp smell of old books—and sex. Lestrade has to look anywhere but at them, and what he sees is one of John’s t-shirts crumpled against the legs of a chair in the kitchen.

John sees him see it, and so does Sherlock, but the difference is that Sherlock raises his chin a little higher, and John clears his throat.

“Shall we, then?” He glances over his shoulder at Sherlock, who is now digging through another shelf, pulling down books indiscriminately. “Sure you couldn’t stomach it? A bit of normal socialization?”

“Absolutely not.” He doesn’t look up.

John rolls his eyes. “I’ll be back…in a bit.”

Sherlock is engrossed in the tome in his lap, doesn’t even nod this time.

John rechecks his pocket for his mobile and keys, and they slip out. They’re not five stairs down when Sherlock shoves open the door again, calls for John.

Lestrade braces himself for some sort of revelation that will require a great deal of running through London or worse, but it doesn’t. Nothing happens for thirty seconds, and he glances over his shoulder, up the stairs, and there’s John, pressed up against Sherlock, whose back is against the doorjamb, Sherlock, whose hands are under John’s shirt, far enough to raise the hem of his jacket, his jumper, the t-shirt under it, and bare an inch of pale skin.

If calling Sherlock an evil fucking bastard out loud wouldn’t confirm everything, he’d do it. “I’ll be playing in traffic,” he says to the wallpaper, and goes the rest of the way down the stairs to wait outside.

John makes a muffled sound of quasi-protest around Sherlock’s mouth before Lestrade’s out of earshot. He stands on the sidewalk for another minute and a half before John comes pelting down the stairs. He’s got the sling off, but he keeps his left hand in his coat pocket to minimize the swing of his arm.

“Sorry about that,” John says. He looks a little embarrassed but more pleased. Lestrade can’t quite blame him, though he wonders if he’ll ever have a chance to get Sherlock back for that.

“Eh,” Lestrade says. “Don’t be.” They walk most of a block in silence then, until Lestrade reaches, claps John on the right shoulder.

John ducks, grins at the tops of his shoes.

It isn’t until they’re perched at the bar, near the television, at the Cannongate Arms, two empty glasses already between them and the match halted while Newcastle’s Aussie hobbles off with another tweak to his Achilles, that John asks him if he went through with dinner.

“I did.”

“And?”

Lestrade keeps his glass against his mouth for a moment. The hoppy fragrance in his nose is going to make him sneeze if he’s not careful, but hiding behind his glass seems better, just now, than actually saying any of it out loud. He’s been gagging to tell _someone_ , someone who’d actually understand, after a fashion, and here’s his chance, and it’s paralyzing.

But John is a patient man, and John waits until he’s out of bitter and out of breath.

“It went…pretty well.” He rubs the back of his neck, tilts his head toward the telly. “It’s still going.” Whatever “it” happens to be.

Which is John’s next question, exactly.

Lestrade opens his mouth, closes it again. John holds up two fingers for another round, and when it arrives, he waits until Lestrade picks up his glass. Then he raises his own pint, and when Lestrade does the same, John taps the rims together. “Yep,” he says.

They both turn their heads back to the television.

John obligingly points out Newcastle’s hard luck with the injuries, so Lestrade can call them a bunch of crybaby wankers. John just grins and calls Robin van Persie a twat, to get the ball really rolling. John follows Queens Park Rangers, down in the Champions League (“On their way up. Just you watch.”), but his heart’s really in rugby. Lestrade tries not to admit, in mixed company, that he’s mostly interested in international rugby because there’s very little sexier than French rugby players and he’s got the pin-up calendar to prove it.

“Still, for being a bunch of useless punters,” John says, nodding at Lestrade’s Arsenal jersey, “the new kit looks sharp.” John can say things like that because he hasn’t got a team in the Premiership. “Just pick that up?”

Lestrade shakes his head, then shrugs. “Mycroft.”

John’s eyebrows lift over the fogged circle of his glass. “Hm,” he hums, against the amber liquid. When he puts down his pint, he says he didn’t think football really blipped on Mycroft’s radar. “Then again,” John says, “he has got a lot of radars.”

Lestrade doesn’t say that he’s got a date to watch football with Mycroft tomorrow, a man so invested in his team that he’s got custom-made handkerchiefs. He covers his grin with his hand.

After that, they concentrate on drinking, on the match. Some things are sacred. There’s a lull at half-time, and John excuses himself to the toilet, texting, while he makes his way sort of steadily through the pub, sending a message to Sherlock who keeps asking John whether he really needs a sock drawer. What percentage of the drawer is completely necessary.

Lestrade is watching the halftime report, drawing on the bar with his fingertip in the foam-spill from his own beer when there’s a flash of light near his head. John’s got his phone raised, and then he’s texting.

“The hell?”

John turns his phone so Lestrade can see. _Not informing on Sherlock, but what can I get for details on this man?_ The text is attached to a photo of him, his head tipped up, fingertip on the bar. It’s actually a decent picture. The number is Mycroft’s.

“Bastard.” He can’t help the upturn of his mouth.

John grins, wide and toothy, the way he doesn’t do when he’s sober. The second half of the match starts, and the ball hasn’t moved thirty yards before John’s phone beeps again.

 _That is legwork I am willing to undertake myself. —MH_

John stares at his phone. “I deserved that.”

Lestrade’s mobile vibrates. _Despite being the wrong colour entirely, the jersey fits rather nicely. Until tomorrow. —MH_

The second part is clearly a “I need to concentrate on work now” if Lestrade’s ever seen one, but that doesn’t keep him from feeling the little thrill: tomorrow.

The remainder of the match passes a bit beerily, Arsenal playing to a comfortable win, and John seems to deliberately avoid the subject of Mycroft and Sherlock both for the rest of the night. When they return to Baker Street, though, John doesn’t have to say anything.

Sherlock’s asleep, curled into John’s chair, though the Union Jack pillow’s been kicked to the floor and there’s an eggbeater and a book on micro-zoology on his lap. The flat around him is even more wrecked than it was when Lestrade had come in, though John seems pleasantly—unsteadily—surprised.

“He moved this, then.” John gently pats the mounted skeleton of a wharf rat on its bleached skull like it’s some sort of pet. Then he steps closer to Sherlock, rubs his fingertips through Sherlock’s shorter-cropped hair. Sherlock doesn’t wake up, though he shifts, presses his face closer to the chair’s dingy yellow wing. John half-perches on the chair arm on the four inches of upholstery that Sherlock’s not already covering, keeps petting.

Lestrade says his thanks to John for the company, and he steps back onto Baker Street. The rest of the way back to his flat, the intersections are clear, the trip quick and quiet. He cannot believe his luck.

***

Lestrade tries to ignore the butterflies in his stomach as he turns onto the street that Mycroft named. The street’s nice, but really, really not what he expected, an amalgamation of brick and brownstone and a few Victorian cupolas jutting out. As he nears the address, there’s nothing particularly special about the front of Mycroft’s building. Maybe the small front garden has a bit more polish to it, the variegated holly lush and trimmed, maybe the railing of the gate is a bit higher, not a flake of paint loose. There’s no sign of the black Jaguar, of Anthea’s Triumph, but there are certainly tread-prints from a motorcycle tyre in a patch of street tar just off the kerb. He stands in front of the gate, looks up. The building itself is a strange but attractive mix of brick and clean grey stone. One of the curtains on the second floor flutters.

When he gets up to the door and is reaching for the buzzer for the top flat, as Mycroft said to, the rich green door swings open. There’s no one behind it. He steps inside, and though the building, from the outside, looks like the others—ostensibly divided into separate flats with a common hallway and stair—this opens into a much more homelike foyer, a staircase leading up.

“Thanks,” he says, to the mystery door-opener, and he heads up the stairs. At the second floor landing, there’s a pair of grease-stained workboots sitting outside the door. He’s looking backward at them as he heads up to the third floor. Before he can get to the top, though, the door opens, and there’s Mycroft. He’s wearing a Spurs-blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up neatly to the elbow, and grey trousers. He’s not wearing a tie or a waistcoat. Lestrade counts that as a kind of victory.

Mycroft steps down a few steps as Lestrade comes up, but he backs up, too, before they meet on the same step, and Mycroft holds the door for him.

“Welcome,” he says, takes the beer that Lestrade has brought, gives him a look for spending a bit too much time re-wiping his shoes on the mat in the hall, the _it’s a floor, honestly_ look. And that may be true, but it’s a nice floor, all of it warm, bright wood. It’s not new, but it’s beautifully cared for. In a moment’s glance, that’s the impression that Lestrade has of all of it: neat, precise attention to a lived-in space. Nothing could be farther from Sherlock’s negligent chaos, and Lestrade has a flash of suspicion that Sherlock’s disorder is actually a learned behavior, a marker of difference.

Mycroft starts him on a tour of the flat, praising this tradesperson and that for restorations and replacements, the explanations starting crisp and clean and falling off when Lestrade makes a sound of assent or understanding. In the space of two rooms, they spend more time looking at each other than anything else. They’re at the edge of the kitchen and Mycroft just stops talking for a moment. The music in the background is strings, likely the cellist that he’d mentioned the other day, and they’re separated by a few feet. Mycroft’s chest rises and falls, and Lestrade is going to take it to the grave that he didn’t start this, that it was that one visible breath on Mycroft’s part. But he raises his left hand, crooks his finger, beckons. Mycroft crosses the space in one step, cups Lestrade’s face in both hands. The start of the kiss is gentle, warm, and Lestrade tilts his chin up for it. When he puts his own hand on Mycroft’s waist, though, it changes: Mycroft’s tongue presses in against his, rubbing, his lips soft but insistent. It’s somehow different than Thursday night, more sure, more confident, just— _more_. There’s nothing to do but return the sentiment, and Mycroft’s right hand slips into his hair. Lestrade doesn’t even try to keep the noise quiet, and this time, Mycroft doesn’t express doubt about the nature of the moan, though his fingers are still careful. Lestrade smoothes his hands up Mycroft’s sides, over his back, and pulls him closer. They press backward and forward, Lestrade’s thigh braced against the dining room table, his fingertips anchored on Mycroft’s shoulderblade, the back of his neck.

The kiss ends with Mycroft straightening himself, trailing his fingertips from Lestrade’s hair, over his neck and shoulders, to rest, tangled, with Lestrade’s fingers.

“Apologies,” he says. “That thought has…preoccupied me since Friday.”

Preoccupied is one way to put it. Lestrade only says, “Next time, you could certainly do that over there.” He points to the front door. Up against the door definitely wouldn’t be a bad thing, either.

The look on Mycroft’s face when he says _next time_ —it takes another five minutes to disentangle themselves. Lestrade’s fully ready to bend himself over the table if Mycroft wants him to, but Mycroft doesn’t press, doesn’t even slot their hips together. Even so, it’s enough. Strangely, it’s enough.

When they break, they’re almost laughing, a little breathless. “Now,” Lestrade says, “you can tell me about your place.” He will try to pay attention.

Mycroft does, starts the tour over, and he’s wonderful to listen to. The place is posh; nothing about how well it’s maintained can happen without significant expense, but Mycroft turns all of the attention to the history of the building, which is technically unremarkable but still interesting coming from Mycroft’s mouth. It nearly feels like a museum tour, actually, but in all of the best ways, and the flat reminds Lestrade, all over, of someone’s fantasy of a library: wood and leather, deep shelves and tall windows. Here and there, though, he sees quirks of Mycroft’s personality: the retro-fitted stereo surrounded by open CD cases (he sees the mix he made sitting near the top of the pile), the books arranged by color and size (when asked, Mycroft says he knows where everything is and Lestrade believes him), the art on the walls old-fashioned and strangely romanticized (dreamy British watercolors of Scottish lochs and a piece by William Blake that Lestrade is certain isn’t a print).

“This,” he says, “seems bigger on the inside.”

Mycroft laughs, gets the reference, and just nods. “There are some very quiet architectural marvels here.” Not the least of which is the suspended balcony over the back courtyard, one little patch of perfect emerald green around a Chinese maple.

Then there’s Mycroft’s bedroom, which is clearly inspired by Japan: the bed low, the room partitioned near the closet by a papered screen. There’s a bonsai, a small one, perched atop the dresser. The room is otherwise spartan, and there’s another small door at the room’s other end. There are no mirrors, not even over the chest of drawers.

Lestrade steps closer to the tree. He wasn’t invited to do so, but he hasn’t seen one of those, not a real one, not a real one that actually belongs to a person, anyway, as opposed to a professional garden. The wizened little juniper hooks hard to the left, spreads a few gnarled branches to the right. The tree seems to perch in its low clay, an optical illusion of symmetry and balance. “That’s brilliant.” But it must take so long to get such a result. He’s too impatient with plants to even keep rosemary and basil alive in his kitchen.

“It’s a reminder to take the long view,” Mycroft says. He touches the tiny needles at the tip of one branch, nearly petting it.

For reasons he doesn’t quite understand, the action makes him want, desperately, to tumble Mycroft into his immaculate bed. He inches his way toward the door.

“We’ll miss the lineups,” he says, and Mycroft nods, leads him back to the den, because of course Mycroft Holmes doesn’t have something as gauche as a television in his front room. The television he has, though—it’s going to feel like watching the match from the touchline. Lestrade whistles, runs his fingertips over the sleek black plastic. He doesn’t miss the speakers mounted around the room, either, the deep, plush sofa.

“You,” he says, turning to Mycroft, “are going to need a prybar to get me away from this.”

“Good thing I haven’t got one of those,” Mycroft says smoothly. The picture springs to life and it sounds nearly like being at White Hart Lane, which Lestrade has been to, though not for a few years. As a young man, he and Bob had been there often for the North London Derby, just on the edge of trouble.

Lestrade sits first, and he’s pleased when Mycroft settles near him, though he’s not as close as he could be. It’s Mycroft’s team’s match: the move’s his. Lestrade himself has enforced the “no touching while the ball’s in play” rule before; he’s not going to begrudge someone else the same. Even if the one open button at Mycroft’s throat is more than halfway distracting.

Still, ground rules are important. “Conversation permitted? During France’s international tests, my da requires absolute silence, so I understand.” Except from his mum, from whom there is seldom silence of any kind.

Mycroft looks askance. “It would seem intolerably rude to say nothing to each other for ninety minutes.”

“Thought I’d check. House rules and all.”

“Is that common?” Spurs are ranging out over the field, and Mycroft’s head tilts toward the screen, though he’s looking at Lestrade. It is impossibly alluring.

“You don’t tend to watch your matches in company, do you?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Not since university. And that was a rather different affair.”

Lestrade remembers knots of his own mates crowded into pubs, or, less frequently, someone’s small, scrubby flat, while the dozen of them tried to avoid doing anything that would get them an ASBO. It was a lot more difficult, during Arsenal at West Ham, than any of them thought it would be. He expects, too, that Mycroft’s experience wasn’t half as much fun. There’s no lingering fondness on his face, no nostalgia there. He wonders, for a moment, if there’s anything Mycroft’s nostalgic over.

Then the whistle starts the match, and Mycroft is immediately rapt. It’s the whole of his attention focused on one thing, and Lestrade cannot see even the outline of his mobile in his pocket. Or, almost all of his attention: he inches a little closer during a brief stoppage, presses their thighs together. Lestrade slips one arm loosely around Mycroft’s waist, and though he’d like, very much, to get closer, he’s not going to interfere. He finds himself, too, watching Mycroft more than the pitch, watching Mycroft’s usual perfect posture go straight to hell, hunched over his knees, his hands knotted into fists. The tension in his body is amazing—Lestrade doesn’t get this way himself, most of the time, until the last month of the season. Or against Man United and Chelsea, just because.

When Robinho goes down spectacularly in front of Robbie Keane’s boots, writhing like he’s been gutted without much more than a friendly nudge, Mycroft’s left hand stabs the air. “Lily-livered, action-taking whoreson!”

Lestrade stares for a moment, then cracks up. Mycroft actually glares at him, and Lestrade bites his fist to stop the laughter.

When Pablo Zabaleta nicks the ball from Tom Huddlestone, not far off the City net, Mycroft mutters, “Heir of a mongrel bitch.”

When Micah Richards fouls Spurs’ Russian golden boy on a tear toward what’s surely going to be an easy goal, Mycroft stands, stalks around the sofa. “You _base_ football player,” he says, and there’s the half. Mycroft braces himself behind the sofa, his hands clutching the leather back, his forearms knotted tight. Lestrade finds himself staring hard. Something jogs in his memory.

“You’re shouting Shakespeare at your television.” The earlier bits of it sounded somehow familiar, but the “football player” thing—they’d gone on about that in school for ages. He dry-snaps his fingers in the air a moment—“ _Lear._ That’s from _King Lear._ ”

Mycroft’s face turns sheepish, though there’s high color in his cheeks. “The Bard does have the best insults.”

Lestrade scoots over until he’s in front of Mycroft, and Mycroft ducks his head like he expects to be mocked. And Lestrade might do that a little later, actually, just a bit, in good fun, but right now—he pushes himself up, kneeling on the cushions, and snogs Mycroft until he lets go of the sofa-back, until he’s leaning off-balance enough that Lestrade’s holding him up. Mycroft’s got his hands braced on Lestrade’s biceps, and he scrapes his teeth once over Lestrade’s bottom lip. _Yes._

“Ready?” Lestrade slides his hands up to Mycroft’s clavicle, then to the outside of his arms, the cap of his shoulders.

“Mm?” Mycroft’s pleasantly confused-looking, which is exactly right, and Lestrade twists himself sideways, hauls Mycroft right over the back of the couch on top of himself. They land in an ungainly sprawl, and Mycroft seems alarmed that he’s damaged Lestrade in some way, but they settle without anything being broken (more importantly, without the knee in the groin that’s the real danger in this situation).

“That was—unexpected.” Mycroft is trying to find a place to put his hands that will brace him, let him hold himself up, but he looks strangely exhilarated.

Lestrade does his best to make sure Mycroft doesn’t find any place like that. He grins. “That’s the point.” He kisses Mycroft once, slides his hands up Mycroft’s back, and Mycroft gives in to the kiss, for a little while, blanketing Lestrade with his body.

Lestrade hooks one ankle with Mycroft’s, pulls them together more closely, and Mycroft arches, gasps against his mouth. His fingertips knot in the fabric at Lestrade’s shoulders, and ¬his lips stutter on Lestrade’s cheek. Then Mycroft stills, seems to gather himself. The kiss between them eases, and Lestrade can’t help but feel a tinge of disappointment. Nevertheless, Mycroft’s still there, still kissing him, and that’s good, too.

They stay together, like that, until there’s two minutes before the end of halftime. Then Mycroft sits up. His face is a little flushed.

“I’m being a terrible host.” He walks toward the door. “May I get you a drink?”

Lestrade says he’ll take a beer. “Don’t need a glass.” Mycroft steps out, and Lestrade shouts after him, “You’re welcome to a few yourself, if you like.” He sits up again, tries to get himself in order in the ninety seconds that Mycroft will be gone.

Mycroft is back, holding two bottles, one of Lestrade’s London Prides and a Magner’s cider, which confirms it: Mycroft’s not a beer man, and that’s not at all a surprise.

Lestrade takes his beer, and Mycroft puts himself right beside him. He casts a slightly guilty look at his drink before he takes a mouthful, but then the match starts again. Lestrade can’t keep himself from stealing an apple-flavoured kiss when there’s another stoppage in play.

Mycroft’s tongue traces the edge of Lestrade’s teeth, and by the end of the time-out, his arm is around Lestrade’s shoulders. At least until Pavlyuchenko gets fouled again and Mycroft is shouting at the telly right through the resultant penalty shot, which the City keeper gets to only through divine intervention.

The match is still tied at nils in the eightieth minute, and Tottenham’s playing sloppy football. They’re going to cough up a penalty shot of their own if they’re not careful, and in the Robinho/Gomes matchup, Lestrade’s money would be on the offense. Mycroft’s got his hands balled up tight, his jaw clenched, and his chest heaves. Lestrade licks his lips, takes a pull of his beer, which has been largely forgotten in favour of watching Mycroft. He can’t take the bottle away, or the words will fall out of his mouth. But he also can’t drink forever because it’s empty now.

He can’t keep the words in. “I hope Spurs lose.”

Mycroft’s face—he looks like Lestrade’s just called his mother a whore, something sharp behind the hazel of his eyes.

Lestrade says the rest of it. “Just so I can see what you’re like. I bet it’s even more gorgeous.” There’s something unbelievably sexy about how irate Tottenham’s current incompetence is making him. Actually, Spurs had better get their shite together because Lestrade suspects that his reaction will be out of line with the current level of physicality in their association.

Mycroft tries to put all of that together, the team slight and the compliment. His cheeks turn more flushed. “You had better hope they do not,” is all he’ll say.

And in the end, Spurs don’t lose. They draw at naughts, thanks to solid goalkeeping behind collapsing defense on both sides. Mycroft’s switched to barking abuse in Latin, and Lestrade is trying to bide his time patiently. Mycroft keeps the post-game report on, but he slumps into the sofa, and before they’re even through the chat on the first half, Mycroft’s leaning half against Lestrade.

Lestrade winds one arm around his middle. “A point’s a point, hey?” Spurs are in the middle of the table. It’s not likely that they’ll finish in the top three, and unless they have one of the more spectacular failures on record through the rest of the season, they’re safe from relegation. Not, of course, that logic ever really applies to sentiments regarding football. There was a match against Aston Villa in January that actually made him throw a ballpoint pen at the wall in his flat. It stuck. There’s still a little hole in the plaster.

Mycroft makes a grumbling noise. “There was no excuse for that performance.”

Lestrade inches down, kisses the back of Mycroft’s neck. “Next time.” His skin is tinged with salt, and Lestrade kisses again, soft and wet. Whatever Mycroft was muttering about Manchester City trails off, the words lost in the drop of his head, the silent request for more.

Working his way over the nape of Mycroft’s neck, he mouths at the knots of vertebrae, the soft skin behind his right ear. When he drags his nose over the shell of Mycroft’s ear, Mycroft shivers, puts his hand on Lestrade’s thigh.

“Gregory.” His fingertips slide an inch.

“This all right?” Lestrade nudges Mycroft’s shirt collar down as far as he can, nuzzles under the fabric.

Mycroft nods. He doesn’t say anything, and it feels like he’s barely breathing. Lestrade wants to undo the buttons on Mycroft’s shirt, to bare his neck and shoulders, but he doesn’t. He wants Mycroft to want it enough to take it himself, to push this further.

Eventually, Mycroft shifts, tugs Lestrade into his lap again. The night fades, Mycroft’s mouth on his, Mycroft’s hands sliding the length of his back without pushing up under the hem of his shirt. In bed, at home, Lestrade presses his own tongue to the tender, swollen inside of his lower lip, and takes himself in hand.

 _Gregory_.

With his left hand, he texts another good night to Mycroft.

***

It’s another semi-farewell dinner, Mycroft bound for another “somewhere” that he can’t talk about. This time, Anthea actually accepts the invitation, though Lestrade’s sitting on a folding camp chair because there are only two chairs with his table and guests don’t sit on folding chairs unless there’s a lot more beer. Tonight’s a wine night.

They’re drinking dessert, a fair _fino_ sherry from Sanlúcar de Barrameda, and Lestrade’s trying to avoid the dull, flat feeling that comes from thinking about Mycroft being gone for another however-many days. His ankle is held between Mycroft’s, and Anthea’s concentration is on the mechanic’s manual spread on the corner of the table. Lestrade props his chin in his palm before he can start drumming his fingers.

“What do you do, exactly?” he says.

Mycroft puts down his glass of wine, steeples his fingers. “I do what the Prime Minister, Her Majesty, and Parliament can’t.”

Lestrade cracks a grin. “That’s an awful lot.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s face is perfectly serious. He doesn’t otherwise elaborate.

Which is pretty much exactly what John had said. Lestrade suspects that the real gravity of that will sink in somewhere around four o’clock in the morning some night, and he’ll wake up in a cold sweat. Or at gunpoint. Right now, though, he nods, rolls a little more of the _fino_ across his tongue. They’re working their way through Spanish wines, mostly so Lestrade can spring the best of the Aguilar y Cruz vineyards on him when the occasion fits. Sherry isn’t his favorite, and neither is the Cava that he’s pretty certain is going to impress Mycroft when they get there, but wine’s a safe topic. He could talk about that.

What he says is, “And you?” to Anthea, who is largely ignoring them, but she seems fond of the sherry and the spiced almonds.

She glances up from the section on carburetors. “I work for him.” The page turns, and that’s that.

“Private contractor,” Mycroft says. He eats an almond in two bites.

Those two words make Lestrade feel significantly less worried for Mycroft’s sake and a lot more worried for everyone else’s. He likes it like that.

***

The text that they’re leaving the airport arrives a bit after ten. Lestrade is leaning against the wrought iron gate when the Jaguar pulls up, and Mycroft and Anthea step out of the back of the car. Anthea opens the trunk, but it’s Lestrade who wedges himself between them, who lifts out the two small suitcases.

Anthea shoots him half a glare, and he smirks a little.

“I’ve slept in the last three days. Let me.” They each have an attaché case to manage, anyway.

Mycroft’s chest heaves in that way that Lestrade has come to recognize as a stifled yawn. “It’s only been sixty-one hours, adjusting for the timezone changes.” By Mycroft’s count, it isn’t two days until forty-eight full hours have gone, isn’t three until the full seventy-two. Lestrade thinks it wouldn’t kill him to exaggerate a little bit once in a while.

“And twenty-six minutes,” Anthea says. She opens the front door, and Lestrade holds it with his foot while they both trickle in. He puts her suitcase on her landing, next to her shop boots, and follows Mycroft upstairs. Anthea won’t open her own door until they’re both inside, until whichever driver it is comes back, takes his post in the downstairs flat. Lestrade and Mycroft wait for the two quiet sounds of the front door and then Anthea’s, and then Mycroft’s shoulders finally relax. Slump is the better word. Lestrade puts the suitcase in the sitting room, takes the attaché case from Mycroft’s hand, which is more difficult than it likely should be.

“I’m not going to steal state secrets.” He puts it beside the suitcase, and he comes back to Mycroft, who is all but swaying on his feet. Mycroft lets himself be kissed, though, winds his arms around Lestrade’s shoulders when he comes close. Lestrade slides both hands under his suit jacket, strokes down his back.

“Come on. Bed for you.”

Mycroft stands up straighter, and all of a sudden, he doesn’t look tired anymore. His jaw has a hard, intent set. “But you just got here.”

It’s been more than a week since they’ve seen each other, their work schedules simply not aligning in any useful way, and then Mycroft was in Edinburgh, and then in…somewhere, again. He doesn’t look tired, but there’s a bit of sway again. This is the thing that Sherlock does. Sherlock can go almost seventy-two hours without anyone even being able to tell he’s been awake that long, but once he starts to fade, he goes down fast. Sherlock, though, will also abuse pharmaceuticals and otherwise to keep him going, or at least he used to, before John. Now he makes do with caffeine, nicotine, and a lot more vicious bitching, but the collapse at the end is still the same.

“And it’s not even midnight,” Mycroft adds. Lestrade doesn’t say that he’s heard a nine-year-old girl use the same excuse four days ago.

Lestrade shakes his head. “I know that act.” He kisses Mycroft’s chin, wants to bite a little because his skin’s actually a bit stubbled from the however-long flight, but this is not a good time to start something like that. “Sleep.” Despite Mycroft’s continued protest that he’s fine, Lestrade slips his arm around Mycroft’s waist, walks him toward the back of the flat. Even this much feels good, though, good enough, certainly, that he doesn’t want to leave right now, either, and he takes a deep breath. “I could stay a bit, if you wanted me to.”

“Of course I want you to,” he says, testily, like Lestrade’s an idiot for even suggesting otherwise, and he makes a rueful face when he hears his own tone. It gentles. “I always prefer to see you, rather than not see you.” Mycroft sighs. “Please stay.”

Lestrade grins. “So the crack in the armor is sleep deprivation.” It’s almost hilarious that Mycroft seems apologetic for one snippy sentence—one that wants to see more of him, not less—after listening to Lestrade’s profanity-laden indictment of the entire British judicial system last week.

Mycroft levels a look at him. Then he just slumps onto the end of his bed.

“Which drawer?” Lestrade points at the dresser. “Pyjamas?” He has a brief flicker of hope that Mycroft will say he doesn’t wear pyjamas, thank you, and that he’s knackered enough to just strip off right there.

“Second.” Mycroft is picking very slowly at his shoelaces.

Lestrade slides the drawer open, and it’s full of sleek-feeling pyjamas in dark jewel tones. There’s a pair of Black Watch plaid ones, too, in the back, that are buttery flannel. He pulls out the green ones, puts them on the bed beside Mycroft, closes the drawer before he gives in to the urge to pet Mycroft’s garments. He’s got his shoes open, but that’s about it. When Lestrade kneels at his feet to tug his black oxfords off, Mycroft tries to nudge him away.

“You’re not my valet. You don’t have to do that.”

Lestrade peels his socks off, then stands. “No. I’m your boyfriend. I _get_ to do this.” He kisses Mycroft’s forehead because if he kisses his mouth, he’s going to want more than the little peck that would be appropriate when Mycroft’s half delirious with exhaustion. He gets his hands on Mycroft’s hands, then, and pulls him up to his feet again, easing his suit jacket down his arms. Mycroft blinks at him, and Lestrade realizes that he just said that out loud. They still haven’t talked about that. Maybe tomorrow, actually, that’s going to have to happen. For now, Mycroft just leans in and kisses him, once, and shuffles into the lav.

He’s also not sure what “stay” means now—if he gets into bed with Mycroft, leaving tonight is really not going to be an option, and if he doesn’t, he’ll either be just watching Mycroft sleep from the edge of the bed (potentially creepy) or putting the gigantic television through its paces (didn’t come here tonight to see you, baby). And getting into bed wearing denim is just wrong. So he goes out to the kitchen, gets Mycroft some water because flight is dehydrating. Of course, by the time he has the glass in his hand and is stepping back into the bedroom, he still doesn’t have an answer to the issue. Mycroft does.

He pushes another set of pyjamas against Lestrade’s chest with a blunt heaviness, and Lestrade grins. “This a suggestion?”

“Yes.” And he stands there, his sleep-hooded eyes watching until Lestrade tugs off his shirt and vest. The room is cool and dim and Lestrade can’t help but think about undressing here in another context. Eventually. Bare-chested, he toes off his shoes, folds his shirt and puts it on the end of the chest of drawers. It’s probably unfair to do this to him when he’s like this, but Lestrade still likes the little shift of his mouth that says he’s biting his lip.

“In bed,” he says, and presses Mycroft down to at least sit. Mycroft’s hands reach, trail down his bare arms as he backs away. “Just a minute.”

In the loo, what he thinks he should do, for his own sanity, is have a furious wank right there, but he doesn’t want to be gone that long. He pulls up the pyjama bottoms, the silk whispering against his skin—possibly a very bad idea or the best ever—washes his face, and tugs the long-sleeved shirt over his head as he’s stepping back out. He’s wearing Mycroft’s clothes. He runs his fingertips over the fabric on his forearm. _Jesus_.

“How do you ever make yourself get dressed?” He ties the drawstring a little looser than he probably should, lets the pants hang low on his hips.

“S’hard sometimes,” Mycroft says, his voice broken by an actual yawn. He’s still sitting up, though, and Lestrade tugs the duvet and sheet back, manhandles Mycroft onto his pillow. When he tries to reach for the bedside lamp, Mycroft holds on. “Stay,” he says.

“Just getting the light.” Even as he stretches to reach it, Mycroft tucks up against him more, the silk slipping between them. Actually wriggling himself down between the sheets properly only makes the issue worse—or better—and by the time Lestrade is situated, Mycroft is curled around his left side, one arm across Lestrade’s ribs, one leg bent over Lestrade’s right at the knee. He reaches, tugs Mycroft’s leg a bit higher, so the pressure’s not on the joint, and Mycroft makes a contented sound, inches closer. He’s already unconscious, his body gone pliant and pleasantly heavy.

“Good night,” he whispers into the darkness, kisses Mycroft’s stubbled cheek.

It’s earlier than Lestrade usually goes to sleep, particularly recently, with most of his and Mycroft’s overlapping free time coming in between ten at night and three in the morning, and he listens to the sound of Mycroft breathing, to the quiet thumping feel of beating blood. It’s been a long time since he’s been in bed with someone like this. Will wasn’t much for a lot of physical contact outside of sex, said it was just too hot to sleep like that, which was fair: Will threw heat like a furnace. It’s been longer still since being with anyone like this without sex as a precursor.

It’s been a little more than a month that they’ve been seeing each other. Since Lestrade first had sex, he doesn’t think he’s waited this long with anyone else. Men, in his experience, himself certainly included, didn’t want to bother waiting when it seemed that sex was inevitable. Inevitable, and necessary: part of the culture of negotiating power in the relationship, who’s rolling over and who isn’t. Even whether mouth-to-mouth contact was going to be part of it—in his mid- and late twenties, when he was starting his real career and not all that happy about it, actually, there wasn’t much kissing. There was a lot of macho bullshit.

There isn’t any of that with Mycroft, though there might be, Lestrade thinks, just a little bit of it between Anthea and himself, but he’s willing to accept it if it means they’re both trying to look after Mycroft. His palm slides slowly across Mycroft’s back, and Lestrade wishes his skin were bare. He hopes, too, that he’s equal to this chance he has.

***

Lestrade wakes up in the same position he’d been in, Mycroft still wrapped tight around him, though now his hair is fluffy from the pillow, a dark, gingery cloud, and his prick is stiff against Lestrade’s thigh. He tries to disentangle himself, and Mycroft only presses himself closer, his hips making a comfortable hitch.

Fifty percent of the parties involved being unconscious is no way for this to happen. Lestrade pets at Mycroft’s shoulder, nudges gently, until his eyes open all at once. He pushes himself upright.

“Are you leaving?” Mycroft’s voice is rough, unsteady. “Let me—”

“Go back to sleep.” Lestrade gathers him again, eases him back to the pillow. “I’ll be around when you wake up.” He kisses him, just once, just quick, and getting out of bed after that, Mycroft’s sleep-slow hand still sort of reaching for him before his arm goes limp again, is one of the more difficult things he’s done.

It’s mid-morning; he’s slept longer than he thought he would, but he feels surprisingly good. It’s a little strange, padding around Mycroft’s plush flat on his own, but he decides that sharing a bed gives him access to the espresso machine on the counter. Rifling the cupboards to find the coffee is a little less easy—he keeps glancing over his shoulder—but in the process of it, he finds flour and salt and some really nice pans that look like they’ve hardly been used. And maybe he’s avoiding the cupboard that _probably_ holds the coffee, the one right above the machine, so he has an excuse to keep looking. And he doesn’t put milk in his coffee, but Mycroft puts milk in his tea (cold, not warmed, because it brings tea brewed at the correct temperature to immediate drinking temperature), so he checks the refrigerator for milk. He finds a lot more than he remembers seeing last night when he got Mycroft’s water: eggs, yoghurt, strawberries, a bunch of perfectly ripe bananas sitting atop the refrigerator, the kind of perfectly ripe that lasts for exactly two hours, the kind of ripe not-available-in-stores.

If it’s a hint, it’s a really good one.

If it’s not, he’ll blame his father for giving him proprietary kitchen genetics.

He makes crepe batter the way his father does, without measuring, and puts the batter in the refrigerator to rest. He walks his espresso around the flat, and he’s impressed with what the machine managed to make from his less-than-practiced technique. The back of his brain says he should marry Mycroft this very moment if the man can work his own appliances, and he tells it to be quiet. He stands in front of the Blake for a while, the whimsical painting of the cat—the goldfish bowl, the eulogizing poem which actually appears to be by Thomas Gray, who he’s never heard of—and circuits the room slowly. Here the other Sunday for football, he was looking but not looking at things, and then there was the match and the couch and—he sips his coffee, tries to concentrate on what he’s seeing. Outside, it’s a late March rain, the day properly dim. He’s glad—maybe Mycroft will sleep longer that way. The shades on his bedroom windows, facing the inner courtyard, are translucent, papery things, fine for privacy but poor for keeping out light.

Eventually, he makes his way to the loo, and there, on the edge of the sink, is a basket that wasn’t there before. Toothbrush, his own brand of deodorant, shaving cream, razor. Hanging on the back of the door, another of those thermal shirts, this one black, and jeans. Socks. Pants. A port wine dressing gown that isn’t Mycroft’s because Mycroft’s is green and clearly hanging on the back of his bedroom door. He stares at it all for a while, thinks about having a shower and getting properly dressed, but the silk pyjamas really are something. He belts on the robe and goes to the kitchen to start making crepes. Mycroft’s still asleep, but she’s clearly not.

He pads downstairs carrying a plate heaped with crepes filled with strawberry and banana and topped with yoghurt and more berries, knocks on Anthea’s door. The door opens all at once, somehow out of rhythm with when he expects the door to open. When he startles (without dropping the food), the corner of her mouth tilts up. There are, though, soft-looking, bluish half-moons under her eyes, and her hair is skewered in a messy bun that’s a little off-center.

“Thanks,” he says, and holds out the plate. Maybe there’s a flicker of something like surprise on her face, but it’s gone before he can decide. She takes the plate from him, disappears from the doorway, reappears empty-handed. Her silence is unnerving, and he expects that’s exactly why she isn’t saying anything. She’s also looking closely at the clearly borrowed set of pyjamas.

He plucks at the collar of the robe, hazards a grin. “Do you keep a spare wardrobe for me?”

“I keep what Mycroft needs.”

It seems like it could be some kind of slantwise compliment—the suggestion that Mycroft needs him—but it feels more like a threat: what happens if Mycroft doesn’t? And it’s not that he’s worried, not the _I will end you_ speech that is the kind of thing one might expect, even though he’s one hundred percent certain that Anthea is much, much more dangerous than any irate older sibling he’s ever encountered. It’s something else. He’s not sure what it is. He’s not going to worry about it now.

What he says is, “I appreciate that.” That might be the right thing because something about her face seems to warm, slightly, and he decides to press his luck. “And if there’s nothing else he has to do today, you could leave this one to me. Get some rest yourself.”

Her eyes narrow, for a moment, and he feels like he wants to try to explain something, try to defend himself (against what, he doesn’t know), but he waits. And that, too, seems like the right answer.

She says, “Thank you for breakfast. There’s a suitable tray in the cupboard beside the oven.” She still closes the front door in his face, but it feels like some kind of success.

He goes back upstairs, and there is a breakfast tray, clean, golden bamboo, in the cupboard she mentioned. There’s nothing to do now but fill it.

When he eases open Mycroft’s door again, Mycroft is still where he’d been, though he’s curled tight around the pillow Lestrade had been using. He puts the laden tray on the bedside table, slides back into bed, kisses the edge of Mycroft’s ear. The touch of his mouth ratchets Mycroft’s eyes open.

“You’re still here.” Mycroft’s left arm curls around his waist.

“ ‘Course I am.” Lestrade finger-combs Mycroft’s hair. It’s the first time he’s let himself do it, and Mycroft looks surprised, but he doesn’t protest. “Said I would be.”

Mycroft curls in even closer, makes a pleased, sleepy hum. He sniffs. His eyes open again.

“Breakfast in bed if you’re ready,” he says, rubbing the back of Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft scrambles upright, rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks fairly mortified when Lestrade kisses him, morning staleness and all, but he accepts the tray.

“You,” he says, “are a wonderment.”

Lestrade reaches and pours Mycroft’s tea. “I probably overbrewed this.” Tea never looks dark enough, and then with milk—it looks wrong. “And the devil’s greatest trick was convincing people that crepes are difficult.”

“Your modesty is charming.”

Lestrade takes his second espresso from the nightstand. “And your breakfast is getting cold.” This is certainly the best morning he’s had in a year. While Mycroft eats, he e-mails the girls about his reading progress. With Mycroft gone for most of the last week, he’s finished _Half-Blood Prince_ , is about a third of the way through the last book. He should have sent the message a few days ago, but every time he took out his phone then, he ended up texting Mycroft.

Now, too, beside him, he can feel Mycroft very patentedly not-looking at what he’s writing. It is, in its way, just as effective as getting the information as it would be for Sherlock to simply read over his shoulder because Lestrade wants to tell him. Not just because it feels rude not to, but because he wants him to know.

“My nieces,” he says. “Finished the second-to-last of the series, so it’s book club time.”

“Ah,” Mycroft says. He offers Lestrade a strawberry, and even though he already ate, he leans over, nips it from his fingertips, just to do it, to have a reason to lick away the bit of red juice clinging to his skin. Mycroft stares at his own hand like it belongs to someone else before he clears his throat. “Were you surprised by the conclusion?”

Lestrade shakes his head. “Some arsehole on the Tube ruined it for me.” Right after the book came out, actually, before he even started reading any of them. Someone else popped the bloke in the gob for it. Lestrade pretended not to see.

“Bastardry of the first order.” His mouth is so serious.

He laughs. “Yes. But it somehow lead to you saying that, which makes it all worthwhile.” Corrie would parrot that for _years_ if she heard it, and he says so. They’ve all got to watch what they say around Corrie, particularly since she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Mycroft smiles, though he seems not to know how to react, not really, to the concept of being infinitely amusing to a child. Instead, he puts the breakfast tray on the other bedside table. “How are they, your nieces?”

“They’re good,” he says. They’re resilient, tough, despite the business at school. He finishes the last of his coffee. Maybe a little too tough. Corrie had a detention scheduled this week for lighting into some boy in her class for making an ugly comment. And “good” is suddenly not an acceptable answer. “Corrie had two goals in her indoor football match. Betsy’s got her first solo recital coming up.”

Mycroft asks after positions and instruments. Lestrade says, “Striker and classical guitar.” He clarifies: Corrie’s got her eye on keeper, actually, but she’s little and fast and has to learn a bit patience first because she has a habit of crashing out of the box if she can see an opening. And Betsy wants to learn the accordion, of all things—the _trikitixa_ , particularly, because they’d had a grade five geography project that turned her on to the Basque region—but Bob and Marisol haven’t been able to find a proper teacher for that, yet. He doesn’t say that the pricetag on such a very specific sort of accordion, one small enough for Betsy as she is now, is also a significant factor.

“ _Què rebeldes pequeñas_ ,” Mycroft says. His face is so startlingly kind—Lestrade leans over, kisses him again, hard.

When he would pull back, give him room, Mycroft doesn’t let him. He puts the teacup on the tray, wraps both arms around Lestrade’s back, shifting silk against skin, and he kisses him again. They are nose to nose on the pillow.

“Did you mean what you said?” Mycroft’s eyes look half-terrified, and Lestrade’s never seen anything like that. “Last night.” But he’s not letting go.

Lestrade’s caught between laughter and something else, and he’s tempted to play stupid for the moment, to ask _mean what?_ , but that’s ridiculous. “Yeah,” he says, resituating himself: closer, braced, steady. “What else would you call it?” There’s no one else on his end, and he’s surprised at how certain he is that there’s no one else on Mycroft’s, despite the ring. Mycroft never touches it, never pays it any mind, like it’s a prop, which it likely is, something to keep people from asking questions. And they’ve been so…attached, despite the part where it’s just really not easy to be attached _to_ Mycroft, though being _with_ him is shockingly, bewilderingly easy.

Mycroft tips his chin up. “I don’t know.” It’s not coy.

Lestrade presses his lips to the slight cleft in Mycroft’s chin before meeting his eyes again. “You all right with the idea?”

“I am,” he says, “rather keen on it.” Mycroft’s cheeks are flushed, and his fingers knot and release on Lestrade’s ribs. The fabric rucks up a little higher for it, and Lestrade doesn’t think it’s intentional, actually, but the result is good. He shoves against the mattress a little, lets the friction push it higher still. At the movement, Mycroft clutches at him, and there his last two fingers overlap skin. His fingers drag a moment, and his whole palm slides half an inch more before he stops.

“May I?”

“Please.” Please and _thank you_.

There’s another little hesitation, then Mycroft’s whole left hand is under the pyjama-top, stroking from rib to rib. Lestrade simply holds still, then he kneels up, hauls the shirt off, holds himself over Mycroft so he can touch with both hands. His fingertips map the faint knots of spine, the broken-bottle scar high on the back of his right arm, and they slow on the slightly raised texture of the tattoo on his left shoulderblade.

“You have a tattoo?”

He nods. “Since I was twenty.” He’s glad he waited that long, at least, to get the star and fragmented circle from one of The Clash’s logos, because he’d gone to a proper studio for it. Bob had a very poor cannon across one bicep that one of his mates did for him when they were fifteen, and it’s since been covered up with a larger design, a quarter-sleeve of knotwork and his favourite ingredients. The motley keeps creeping down his arm. Lestrade’s also glad, despite his devotion to the music, that it isn’t Joe Strummer’s face, which had been in the running. He has Bob to thank for that: one bad tattoo prevents another. The design’s starting to go a bit soft on the edges, but it’s simple enough that it still looks like itself.

Mycroft pushes himself up a little, pushes at Lestrade’s shoulder until he turns, until Mycroft can see it. “I have always wanted to know what one of these feels like,” Mycroft says, the pads of his fingers ghosting the edges. Then Mycroft moves again; the cool dry of his fingers is replaced by the softness of his mouth. There’s a faint touch of his tongue, too, and Lestrade isn’t surprised: he’s seen Sherlock put a lot of things in his mouth. It’s another way of getting information. And of course it doesn’t taste any different, but it certainly feels different—he knows first-hand from doing the same with other lovers—and for him, it just feels good.

“You—” Mycroft says, and he stops, his mouth on skin again. “You are so lovely.” The words drag across decades-old ink.

Lestrade has to laugh a bit. “Never been called that before.” He turns to look over his shoulder, and Mycroft’s glancing up at him, a concerned line crossing his forehead.

“Have I offended—”

There’s no point in letting him finish that. Lestrade swivels, takes his mouth, chases the flavor of his fancy tea and strawberry to the soft inside of his cheek, the yield of his lower lip. Mycroft’s hands catch at his waist, at the meeting of fabric and flesh, and Lestrade isn’t sure that’s fair.

Mycroft inches down a little, so there’s no chance of them knocking into the headboard, which always sounds sexy in a damn-the-furniture-take-me-now way but that Lestrade has discovered first-hand really isn’t, and the action almost bares skin. But only almost.

Lestrade puts his hand where one piece meets the other, and there he pauses because Mycroft’s gone still again, but this time he seems stiff, bated, his whole frame a kind of wince. Lestrade slides his palm up and over the fabric instead, rubbing the silk over the body beneath, over the cushioned welts of his ribs, over his tightening nipples. Lestrade might get a little lost there, his fingertips fascinated, and Mycroft shivers again, his head tipped back.

Lestrade kisses his way up it, across the line of his jaw, to the earlobe he sucks gently. “I’m going to vex your pyjamas,” he says, inching down to lick a flat stripe across one nipple. The fabric goes slick and close against his tongue, moulding to Mycroft, and when he does the other one, he has to lick a little bit into the breast pocket, but there’s the hard nub, the evergreen turned nearly black, and he can’t keep from pressing it between his lips, teasing with the tip of his tongue.

Mycroft’s left hand fists in his hair and doesn’t pull him back. Lestrade bites, just a little, and Mycroft makes a fluttered, gasping sound that would be funny if it weren’t so hot. He does it again, and Mycroft’s grip tugs at his scalp, pulls a low sound from the back of his throat. Mycroft’s left leg twines with his, brings him closer, pushes them together, the edge of his knee pressing them hip to hip. He lunges for Lestrade’s mouth, too, the raw hunger a bristled scrape across his lips, and Mycroft arches up against him as the soft fabric carries the movement, carries the velvety heat of Mycroft’s prick against his own. Mycroft’s breath is going ragged against his cheek, the kiss fallen apart under the need. Mycroft’s arm lies fully across his shoulders, like this is a rescue, like he’s drowning, and Lestrade tries to remind himself that Mycroft Holmes cannot have visible love-bites, no purple mark of mouth under his jaw. Keeping from biting here is terribly difficult, so he breathes warm against Mycroft’s throat, dips his tongue into the shallow hollow.

Mycroft pants his name, once and then again, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s not just a sound—a perfect, desperate sound—but an address.

Lestrade lifts his head, and Mycroft’s eyes are closed. “I can’t—” he gasps, and Lestrade is afraid of what follows. But what follows is _can’t stop, forgive—_ and Lestrade has to kiss him again.

“Don’t stop,” Lestrade says, against his mouth, against his ear, hitching himself closer, getting a hand between them to roll his nipple under his thumb, to feel the heaved breath and heartbeat.

When it happens, Mycroft keeps his eyes closed. Lestrade is certain to keep his open, to see the way Mycroft’s lips press together, the sound dampened and swallowed, even though his neck is a pale, offered column. His eyes are closed and the silk between them slides slick along Lestrade’s hip, and Lestrade wants nothing more than to rub himself in and against, but he only holds still, only holds, until Mycroft’s eyes open, until his body relaxes into the mattress. His cheeks are aflame, and he won’t look Lestrade in the eye. His fingertips drag across the waistband of Lestrade’s pyjama bottoms, the slow way that says _not much longer_. Lestrade knows that feeling.

“Hey.” Lestrade kisses his mouth, his chin. “What this, then?”

Mycroft shakes his head, a fraction of an inch, then finally looks at him. “That couldn’t have been, for you—”

“Brilliant,” Lestrade says, and lifts Mycroft’s hand, presses his lips to his fingertips. “It is brilliant.” The tense is important: it’s not over, and not just because he’s still hard. If he’s got the chance to spend all day in bed with Mycroft, he’s going to take it. He’d accuse Mycroft of getting unrealistic ideas about mandatory simultaneous orgasms from porn and romance novels except it really seems that sex has simply been off the man’s map.

He rolls onto his back, keeps Mycroft’s fingers at his mouth, licks a little, sucks one fingertip between his lips while he very obviously rubs one hand over his own fabric-covered cock. Mycroft’s eyes follow his hand, and he stares for a bit, his jaw a little slack, and his finger pushes in against Lestrade’s tongue until the decorum snaps back. He forces his gaze back to Lestrade’s face, and he seems torn over whether the correct thing to do is to move his hand or leave it where Lestrade put it. Lestrade kisses his fingertip, licks his own lips.

“Wouldn’t do it in front of you if you weren’t welcome to watch.” He’d rather have him do more than watch, of course, would rather have just rubbed off right there, but he wants another clean trip to the clinic before that. If he tells Bob about this, he’ll already get an earful for this much without condoms, and Bob would be right to do it. And he feels guilty for it, but he likes Mycroft like this, mussed, wet-dark patches at his groin and where Lestrade had licked over his chest. He looks even better after those words, the cast of shame over his features gone, shocked, maybe, at the lewdness, and then just wanting.

He draws himself closer, against Lestrade’s side again, and he looks tentatively at first, like he still thinks he shouldn’t, but when he does—Lestrade tightens his hand, moans. He can hear Mycroft’s breath catch.

“May I?” Mycroft’s hand hovers over his chest.

Lestrade can only nod, and Mycroft rakes through his chest hair, kisses him while he strokes himself, trying to make it last. Mycroft’s ring finger circles his right nipple, lightly, until Lestrade tilts himself into the contact, and Mycroft rolls the tight flesh between his fingers. He looks pleased and surprised and smug at the huff of breath it pushes from Lestrade’s lungs, and he mouths at the edge of his shoulder, along the line of his collarbone.

“God, Mycroft.” He rubs harder, thinks his prick’s going to feel raw after this and that it’s going to be completely worth it.

At the sound of his own name, Mycroft’s hand tightens on his chest, slides down his side to the edge of his hip. His fingers don’t touch Lestrade’s, but they come to rest on the inside of his thigh, on the navy fabric, and he pets, gently. It might be that Mycroft’s hand trembles, just a little, or that it’s Lestrade who’s shaking, jacking himself with Mycroft’s own clothes.

Mycroft takes his other hand, pulls a fingertip between his lips, licks experimentally. Lestrade moans because the soft heat feels good and because making the sound does, too. In moments, Mycroft has the whole digit in his mouth, rubbing the tip of his tongue on the underside of Lestrade’s knuckle, a small patch of skin that has never seemed so sensitive. His body tightens and so does Mycroft’s hand on his thigh.

The orgasm happens before Lestrade expects it to, a rough welling that turns the last few strokes blissfully slick, easy. Mycroft gives his finger a final dragging lick, his gaze fixed on the wet spot, the soft twitch of Lestrade’s prick beneath. When he finally looks up, he looks embarrassed. Lestrade levers himself up on his elbows, kisses him, doesn’t let Mycroft turn away after, just keeps kissing him until Mycroft opens his eyes, holds his gaze.

Lestrade smiles. “Might need to do a bit of laundry.” The wet silk is a little cool now, and Mycroft’s bottoms are probably already fairly stuck to him.

“Yes,” Mycroft says, and he breathes, visibly, a high rise and fall. He draws his knees up to his chest, covers even the open vee at his throat.

Lestrade hopes he’s all right. There’s nothing in his experience to compare this to, but when he stretches, Mycroft watches the roll of his shoulders. Lestrade laces their fingers together. “All right?”

Mycroft nods. Takes another deep breath. “Yes,” he says. “Quite.” He kisses the back of Lestrade’s hand again. It’s tempting to fall back into the mattress a second time, to pull Mycroft on top of him, even just for another thorough snog, but he doesn’t. Mycroft will likely feel more himself, more comfortable, after a shower and fresh clothing.

Lestrade pulls himself off the edge of the bed first, and he’d like very much to simply take the pyjamas off completely, but he doesn’t. He brings Mycroft’s dressing gown to the edge of the bed.

Mycroft accepts it, and he rubs his stubbled cheek once against Lestrade’s before he leaves the room.

Lestrade stands in front of the bonsai, something warm and welling along his spine. He strips off, pulls on the red robe, and goes to the kitchen to heat water, to measure tea, to time it properly this time.


End file.
